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Authors: Grace F. Edwards
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middle-aged man was advising his probation officer: “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have a job.” He sported a dirty Tommy Hilfinger sweatshirt and a scraggly red beard and was probably homeless, but what he said, he said grandly—as if he alone were propping up the entire criminal-justice apparatus.
I led Bertha onto a wide wing off the main corridor and we passed through a set of double doors into a small courtroom where Elizabeth was sitting in the first row, waiting for Kendrick to be brought in. I felt Bertha begin to shake. We managed to sit directly behind Elizabeth, and I tapped her shoulder. Bertha was silent and I did the talking. “When is Kendrick coming up?”
“Any minute.”
“Ask him if he knows a woman, a white woman named Teddi Lovette, and how can I reach her. She came to Bertha’s shop the day after Kendrick was arrested. I need to find her.”
The door to the left of the judge’s bench slid open and two officers accompanied Kendrick into the room. His face was hardrock handsome but he managed to smile and nod to us. Bertha’s face was wet with tears and she passed a hand over her chest.
The judge cleared his throat and glanced at the court reporter. The prosecutor, a fat young man with thick lenses, rose from the table to the left and began to read from the indictment. Elizabeth and Kendrick and I already knew what it said, but in the prosecutor’s mouth it sounded hard and cold and bloody. Words like
malice aforethought
, which would leave the ordinary defendantblinking and wondering who the hell Malice was.
Ain’t had nuthin’ to do with no Malice. He wasn’t even on the scene
.
“… fatally wounded and thereby caused the death of one Thea Morris on the night of …”
I stopped listening and concentrated on Kendrick, on his well-shaped head and dark athlete’s neck. He knew what malice was and did not bow his head but stared straight ahead, as if his vertebrae had been fused.
Finally: “How do you plead?”
The courtroom was small but appeared large in its emptiness. Except for five or six other people scattered along the sixteen rows of straight-backed wooden benches, there was nothing to absorb the echo. The court reporter glanced up to see if she had missed a nod or a frown, then resumed pressing the narrow keys on her machine. Sunshine filtered in thin and white through the high windows, discoloring the wooden rows.
“How do you plead?”
The question resonated from the old brass chandelier and the IN GOD WE TRUST sign on the wall above the bench.
“Not guilty!”
There was no echo in Kendrick’s voice, only the hot dry anger of innocence. I looked down to see Bertha’s fingers, like claws, etching the wood of the bench in front of us. A court officer stifled a yawn as Elizabeth rose from the table and began to speak: “Your Honor,my client’s innocence will be proven. I request that he be released on bail until his trial date.”
The judge did not glance up. I focused on his hair, on the thin silver strands spread strategically and ineffectually across his scalp. Patches of pink gleamed through and the sun caught them, sparkling with sweat, as he nodded. And I knew from the deliberate moves what was coming.
Judge Pink Patch cleared his throat. “At this time, the possibility exists that defendant, given the opportunity, may violate the terms and conditions of bail and not return to court at the appointed time. The court is aware that the defendant has a contract to work in Milan, Italy. The possibility exists that he may not return. Bail is therefore denied and trial is scheduled for Tuesday, October 1, 1997.”
At first, I wondered where the sound was coming from: a low whimper that rose and settled like a high keen on the wind. Bertha’s mouth was open and she had thrown her head back and crumpled into the seat, holding her hands to her chest. Kendrick, his eyes tearing, called to her. “Be strong, Bert. I’ll be all right. Be strong.”
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I led Bertha onto a wide wing off the main corridor and we passed through a set of double doors into a small courtroom where Elizabeth was sitting in the first row, waiting for Kendrick to be brought in. I felt Bertha begin to shake. We managed to sit directly behind Elizabeth, and I tapped her shoulder. Bertha was silent and I did the talking. “When is Kendrick coming up?”
“Any minute.”
“Ask him if he knows a woman, a white woman named Teddi Lovette, and how can I reach her. She came to Bertha’s shop the day after Kendrick was arrested. I need to find her.”
The door to the left of the judge’s bench slid open and two officers accompanied Kendrick into the room. His face was hardrock handsome but he managed to smile and nod to us. Bertha’s face was wet with tears and she passed a hand over her chest.
The judge cleared his throat and glanced at the court reporter. The prosecutor, a fat young man with thick lenses, rose from the table to the left and began to read from the indictment. Elizabeth and Kendrick and I already knew what it said, but in the prosecutor’s mouth it sounded hard and cold and bloody. Words like
malice aforethought
, which would leave the ordinary defendantblinking and wondering who the hell Malice was.
Ain’t had nuthin’ to do with no Malice. He wasn’t even on the scene
.
“… fatally wounded and thereby caused the death of one Thea Morris on the night of …”
I stopped listening and concentrated on Kendrick, on his well-shaped head and dark athlete’s neck. He knew what malice was and did not bow his head but stared straight ahead, as if his vertebrae had been fused.
Finally: “How do you plead?”
The courtroom was small but appeared large in its emptiness. Except for five or six other people scattered along the sixteen rows of straight-backed wooden benches, there was nothing to absorb the echo. The court reporter glanced up to see if she had missed a nod or a frown, then resumed pressing the narrow keys on her machine. Sunshine filtered in thin and white through the high windows, discoloring the wooden rows.
“How do you plead?”
The question resonated from the old brass chandelier and the IN GOD WE TRUST sign on the wall above the bench.
“Not guilty!”
There was no echo in Kendrick’s voice, only the hot dry anger of innocence. I looked down to see Bertha’s fingers, like claws, etching the wood of the bench in front of us. A court officer stifled a yawn as Elizabeth rose from the table and began to speak: “Your Honor,my client’s innocence will be proven. I request that he be released on bail until his trial date.”
The judge did not glance up. I focused on his hair, on the thin silver strands spread strategically and ineffectually across his scalp. Patches of pink gleamed through and the sun caught them, sparkling with sweat, as he nodded. And I knew from the deliberate moves what was coming.
Judge Pink Patch cleared his throat. “At this time, the possibility exists that defendant, given the opportunity, may violate the terms and conditions of bail and not return to court at the appointed time. The court is aware that the defendant has a contract to work in Milan, Italy. The possibility exists that he may not return. Bail is therefore denied and trial is scheduled for Tuesday, October 1, 1997.”
At first, I wondered where the sound was coming from: a low whimper that rose and settled like a high keen on the wind. Bertha’s mouth was open and she had thrown her head back and crumpled into the seat, holding her hands to her chest. Kendrick, his eyes tearing, called to her. “Be strong, Bert. I’ll be all right. Be strong.”
At
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